What a Lovely Way to Burn
by PJOteens
Summary: Clary Fray is the new girl haunted by a boy's face. Jace Wayland is the high school rock star who never stays with a girl for more than a week... Who happens to be her unknown muse. What happens when Clary's brother Seb makes it big with his band and goes head-to-head with Jace's band, The Nephilim? And what happens when Clary begins to fall for the boy she could never have? CLACE.


My hands skim the rough edges of my sketchbook papers with expert precision— the bumpy texture is all-too-familiar, and the grip of my pencil is well-worn. I stop for a moment to sit back from my work and admire it, and then brush my hand across my forehead in frustration. The boy I'm drawing has light eyes and light hair, but I can't get the shape of his jaw right. Feeling blood rush into my face at his steady, unfinished gaze, I rip the page out of my pad and push up from the bed to look out my window.

I curse as I catch a glimpse of my pale face in the reflection— I've smudged pencil across my forehead. As I rub it away, my hand catches in my bright orange hair. I break it out in frustration, and then toss my hair behind my shoulder. I've never liked my hair.

I look down at the slightly crumpled sketch in my hands and feel my insides churn. I don't know why I torture myself like this, with my beautiful drawings and my less-than-beautiful reality. My throat tightens as I drop my drawing to the floor. It flutters down on top of others of the same face, with the same golden eyes and beautiful jawline that I couldn't get quite right—

I close my eyes lightly, the boy's face flashing at the back of my eyelids. His face had been haunting me for weeks on end, relief only coming when I captured him on the pages of a sketchbook.

Ringlets spill about my face as I reach down to lightly touch the growing pile of sketches, my finger dragging slightly along this boy's cheek. How tragic to have fallen in love with a drawing. How typically me.

I pull myself back up to the window and glance outside at the sidewalk. Storm clouds are already beginning to gather, light raindrops spattering my window. I begin to drag myself back from the window, but a couple enters the scene. My eyes flicker to the girl's face and then to the boy's, which is hidden by a hood. The girl is leggy and blond, her shorts too short for comfort, her shirt too revealing to be real. I roll my eyes and look at the boy, who's wearing jeans and a hoodie that casts a shadow across his face.

Man, the kids in this town… It was barely my first week in New York, and already, every girl I'd seen was dressed like some sort of prostitute. The boys were gorgeous, though, and I couldn't help but wonder if any of the ones I'd seen would be going to my school.

I had just moved from California about a week ago, the boy's face haunting me the entire trip over. I'd left behind several things there— a cat named Rat, my best friend Lindsay, and the boy I loved… Who, surprise, surprise, didn't know I existed. I scoff and my eyes drift back to the scene of the boy and girl.

From beneath the hoodie, golden hair flashes, and then hands grip the girl's shoulders. An icy feeling shoots down my spine as my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Then the boy swings the girl around, hard, and presses her against a light post, pinning her there. I stand with a squeak from my Converse and press my palms to the window, feeling like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over my head. Is he attacking her?

Then the boy's face nearly engulfs the girl's with his mouth and I slump back into my seat, rolling my eyes. Gross. As I stand to pull away from the window, a pair of golden eyes catch my own. I do a double take and stare right back at the person they belong to— the boy with the slutty girl against the light post.

His face is marble, unreadable and unresponsive, as his eyes catch my own. The girls pushes at his chest impatiently, her lips trying to capture his own, but he dodges her, not breaking his eye contact with me. I feel my face pale and I take a step backwards as he stares me down. Oh, God. I probably looked like a total perv… But then my eyes drift over his face though I'm embarrassed beyond words, and my stomach drops.

He's the spitting image of the boy from my drawings.

I swallow, hard, as blood rushes up to my cheeks, and I pull the curtains together in a rushed fashion. My fingers tremble as I pick up my drawings, rifling through them, and then set them down against the curtains on my windowsill.

Heat floods into my cheeks and then lower, so that I'm engulfed with a feeling of desire, of pleasure…

I stop myself quickly. I don't know this boy. For all he knows, I could be a total perv. I would never see him again… But still… He's the boy.

I shake my head at my ridiculous thoughts. I was probably hallucinating from the image of this boy haunting my mind.

My eyes flicker to my backpack on the ground and then to the closed window. The drawings of the boy. His gaze mirrors the intense one of the mystery boy outside my window, and I close my eyes as a wave of heat pulses through me.

The door bangs open downstairs, making me jump and all the warmth drain away.

"Clary!" My brother's voice rings through the house, breaking me out of my vegetative state. I pull away from the drawings and open my bedroom door, my red hair flying in my face from the rush of air.

"Hey, Seb!" I call back. I'm greeted with an, "Oh, fuck!" and then a bang. I roll my eyes and flutter down the staircase. A head of bleach-blond hair greets me, bent over a fallen instrument. Sebastian's grin flashes at me as he lifts his battered acoustic guitar off the ground and slings it over one well-muscled shoulder.

"That thing's going to disintegrate one day," I droll, and Seb just rolls his eyes at me, still grinning. "How was the first gig in the Big Apple?"

"Fan-fucking-fastic," he says excitedly, hanging his guitar up on the rack in the hallway. I unpack his amp, eager to listen to how it went. "Guess what?"

"What?" I ask eagerly. Seb's life was always something I enjoyed listening to… Except for maybe the stories of how he'd scored. That was just nasty.

"Rick Land was there!" He raises his fists in a salute, jumping around like a little kid. I raise one eyebrow, his enthusiasm lost on me.

"Rick Land?"

"Oh, come on!" Seb cries, stopping his celebrations. He pauses with a hand on his hip to explain like an impatient little bitch-diva. "Rick Land? Big-time producer? Manager of 40 Minute Rush and The Nephilim?" It finally clicks, and I let loose an, "Ohhh." Seb nods impatiently.

"Well?" I pry. "Did he like your performance?"

"Better," Seb mutters, his fists once again raising to pump at the air. "He offered us a record deal!"

"What?!" I cry, dancing around him. Seb almost giggles with glee and takes my wrists to dance around with me as well. "What are you gonna tell Mom?"

"Pfft. That her son's a rock star now!" I raise an eyebrow.

"No, seriously. She hardly knows you banged every girl on our block back in California."

"So? She'll be thrilled." My mind wanders to my mother— a conservative yet beautiful figure, entranced by all things whimsical and artistic and her quiet, gentle words. No way she'd be thrilled at the fact that her kid was getting a record deal with the producer of the sketchiest boy bands known to man.

"Whatever you say," I giggle, backing up to my room. Then I pause, taking a few steps forward back to Seb. "By the way…" It was a long shot, but better than knowing I was hallucinating. "Do you know this boy…?"

"Real specific, Clary," Seb says with a roll of his eyes. I slap him playfully.

"Let me finish! I know we've barely been here but you've been around town a few times… Do you know a boy… About six foot? Muscular? Blond hair, golden eyes, cool jawline? And the hair kind of falls in his eyes a little?" I pull the picture from my memory and imagination, from my image of the boy that had been haunting me.

"Hot guy? You've seen him around? Like, really hot?" Seb pauses and then adds, "No homo. And you're sure he has golden eyes?"

"One hundred percent," I say, and Seb squints at me.

"You know The Nephilim, right?'

"You just said Rick Land is their manager. So, kinda. Aren't they that punk rock band? Lindsay liked them. I don't really listen to them."

"I think you might have just described their lead singer. Jace Wayland. Hottie. No homo." Seb turned around to adjust his guitar. "Why do you ask?"

"I think I may have just saw him outside my window." And he's been haunting me for weeks on end.

"For real?!" Seb whips around, his blond hair flopping around. "I hear he lives here. And goes to the local high school. I wouldn't be surprised. But that's rad!" I feel my stomach twist. A rock star? At our new high school?

"I'm going to go look him up," I mutter, suddenly feeling very dizzy. As I make my way up the stairs, Seb calls up to me,

"Jace Wayland!" As if I needed a reminder.

I flip open the top of my laptop and type Jace's name into my search engine. Immediately, The Nephilim pops up everywhere, and all I can see is black and leather and silver and really on-point haircuts. As I scroll through the pictures, I see the same scene:

A really cute, tall, lanky boy with floppy black hair and piercing blue eyes, a drop-dead gorgeous girl who looks exactly like the boy, a boy with messy brown hair and Ray-Bans, and front-and-center… Jace Wayland.

He was gorgeous, all muscle and shimmering hair and jawline and glittering golden eyes. Something about them seemed dangerous, like he was untamable. His face was literal perfection— and the spitting image of the boy outside my window. I feel my face turn red with heat from the scene I had witnessed earlier— the leggy blonde and the way he had pressed against her, his hands feeling her up and around her… Until he had caught my eye.

My eyes drift past my laptop to my drawings of him, almost perfect replicas despite the fact that the jawlines were unfinished. I feel confusion drift over me. I had probably seen him before… But that seemed impossible.

I shake my head through my confusion and close my laptop slowly. Then, with decisive action, I reopen it and click on a video of their latest song, "Affliction."

Music fills my room; just the click of the guitar and a soft beat of drums, which intensifies with every chord… And then Jace Wayland's voice drifts in, all power and soul, and my insides melt. His voice is liquid sex and butter and scotch over ice and the beat of the drums.

I feel my nerves jump and my hairs stand on end as the song draws to a close.

They were amazing. And Jace Wayland's voice…

And he was great. He was fucking great.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. More to come soon. Make sure to comment, follow, favorite if you liked the story so far! xx<strong>


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